Page 264 of Tormented Billionaire Romance Series

“I haven’t seen anything like that around, but let me check with my boss,” I say.

Troy will never forgive me if I let a big fish out of the shop without telling him.

“I was holding out some vague hope that you might be able to help me,” the man says.

“I’d be happy to,” I say, “but I really should check with my boss on the Fabergé. If we have anything like that, he’d—”

“You don’t have any Fabergé,” he says. “That’s fine, though. I’ve always found his pieces to be frightfully pretentious, though I will admit to having coveted more than one of them in the past. Unfortunately, those pieces are not for sale.”

What this guy’s doing, it isn’t about antiques. This guy just wants me to know that he has money and a lot of it. More likely, he just wants me tothinkhe has a lot of money.

A real-life connoisseur coming in here is a special occasion: It’s only happened a couple of times. Some random guy walking in here with a bloated ego, saying he might buy something here if there was anything “expensive enough” for him: that happens in here at least once a month.

I’ve never known anyone like that to buy anything. They’re the type who love the mini-prestige that comes from convincing someone that he’s got more money than the Pope. They’re the ones that’ll buy a beaten down, used and abused Porche body, have some guy put a lawnmower engine in it, and tell everyone how much he loves taking it on “ze Autobahn.”

“Okay,” I say, trying to hide the annoyed tension from my voice. “Is there something that youwerelooking for?”

“Yeah,” he says. “I was hoping I might get your number and take you out to dinner sometime.”

I lean a little to one side, trying to see the man’s face. It’s probably Mr. Simpkins again. He’s been in here to ask me out on a date at least once a week since I started here. If the man ever bought anything, he’d be our best customer.

Mr. Simpkins is a nice enough man; I just prefer dating a little closer to my age range. At sixty-four, Mr. Simpkins is a bit—what’s the nice way to say it?—mature for me.

“Mr. Simpkins, I appreciate the disguise and all, but I just don’t think you and I would have anything in common,” I say.

“I take it this Mr. Simpkins is my competition,” the man says.

“Come on,” I say. “Turn around and face the music.”

The man turns around, but it’s not Mr. Simpkins. The man’s looking at me, but I don’t have any words.

The man’s tall, probably 5’10” or thereabouts. His short, dark, immaculately groomed hair provides the perfect compliment to his tan skin and dark brown eyes, and yeah: I recognize him all right.

The next thing I know, I’m on the floor, and the man is crouched over me, saying something my addled brain can’t even begin to decipher.

“You’re Nikolai Scipio,” I mutter when I finally find my voice.

“Call me Zach,” he says. “Are you all right? You fainted.”

I sit up, almost headbutting him in the process. “You’re Zach Scipio,” I repeat.

He smiles. “So, I was thinking a nice, quiet place with plenty of candles, a friendly atmosphere—that is, if you don’t think that’s too forward of me.”

I was voted most outgoing in high school, but the only thing I can think to say to this stranger is, “Uh…”

“Or,” he says, “if you’d prefer something where there’s not so much pressure on the conversation, we could always go paintballing.”

Nikolai—Zach Scipio isn’t a local, but I’d recognize him anywhere. He’s been on the news enough over the last year or so; I can’t imagine anyone with a TV wouldn’t know who he is.

“Paintballing?” I ask.

“Just checking to see if you’re still paying attention,” he says and smiles. “So, Grace—”

I interrupt, “How do you know my name?”

“I had you followed,” he says. “I bribed a guy from the DOJ to have a team keep an eye on you, let me know any sordid details, that sort of thing.”

The reason I’m not laughing is that Zach Scipio, along with being particularly recognizable, is also one of the richest men in the country. After Stingray Next Generation Technologies—his company—went public, he went from being a college dropout to being a billionaire overnight.

---